


The Edge of Loyalty

by Skalidra



Series: Marco Polo - A/B/O [4]
Category: Marco Polo (TV)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, But not from our Mongols, Character Study, Established Relationship, Loyalty, M/M, Sexism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-07
Updated: 2020-09-07
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:46:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26333596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skalidra/pseuds/Skalidra
Summary: When there's an assassination attempt on the Khan, Marco and Byamba are the ones sent to track down those responsible, hunting down the Old Man in the mountains and confronting him over who it was that contracted their services. But with a Khan that may not live to see their return, and an answer not nearly as clear as they'd hoped, returning may not be the safest course of action.
Relationships: Kublai Khan/Marco Polo
Series: Marco Polo - A/B/O [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/583663
Comments: 2
Kudos: 32





	The Edge of Loyalty

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome! I'm not totally positive I will ever actually be done with this universe, but here's another little piece. (I swear, there's a piece I'm working on that's actually from Marco's perspective. It's not just literally everyone else. That's just... easier.) This one is based around episode 5; three of the scenes expanded out and adjusted to be appropriately in-context for the omegaverse aspect of it. So, if some of the dialogue looks familiar, that's because I ripped some of it straight from the scenes.
> 
> (I always worry I'm being too flowery with their language but nope, the show is literally just like that.) Have fun; enjoy! I actually had a lot of fun with this one.

He does not intend to leave. That is the thought that strikes, as Byamba watches Marco settle onto his back. The Latin intends to stay, to bring his information to a prince that will not treat him as kindly as their father has, should he pass to the eternal blue sky. Not with his father's crimes yet unpunished, not with his lack of a true position in court.

The Empress has some fondness for Marco, and Byamba is more privy than most to how Jingim struggles to maintain his appearances when it comes to his father's favorite foreign pet. Protective enough to please his father and the Empress (and satisfy his own instincts, as much as he likes to deny their existence), distant enough to offer no threat to his father's claim, and yet confident, to still appear powerful and worth attraction, should Marco be interested. It is a dangerous thing, to mix in to all that contradiction the desire to present a decisive, strong front to the Khanate, as well.

Jingim is complicated, but here, predictable. Marco does not deserve to be the casualty of his brother's first attempt at ruling.

"Two months to the Hindu Kush," Byamba says, leaning on his elbow and keeping his voice matter of fact. "Up, down, give or take a year and you're in Venice. You have time before the snows fall."

Marco looks at him, uncomprehending. He tosses the golden tablet to the ground between them.

"You were killed by the Hashshashin," he adds, holding Marco's gaze. It should not need more explanation than that, and it doesn't.

Marco is silent for a moment more, watching him. His voice is lower, when he speaks. "You would let me go?" No hope, no wonder, simply a question with a soft edge of disbelief.

"You are a guest in someone else's home. You should leave when you wish." It is not as simple as that, not for anyone, and certainly not for Marco, but Byamba cannot claim it is not a truth he yet believes. And, "Upon our return your host may be gone, and you would be friendless."

Marco's lips quirk, faintly. His hand moves to lie between them in the dirt, almost offering it as if to clasp, though it stays too close for him to reach, even if he thought the offer was true. "Are we not now friends, Byamba?"

It is not naive, in the way some might believe. He has seen too much of Marco in this trip to take the question at face value, and read his words and his heart too many times to miss the sadness in his eyes.

It is easy enough, still, to admit, "I cannot save you in Cambulac." He is not a fool, and he knows his own standing. He cannot stand in the way of Jingim or his father, if it comes to that.

Marco's smile tilts a little more towards truth, before fading. His hand takes the tablet instead of reaching any further out, pulling it from its leather sheath and lifting it above him. He looks at it, tilts it in the firelight.

There is a trap to the softness of the way he says, "Would you defy the Khan?"

It is an easy answer. "No." He has never been one to speak around what he means — he leaves that for those more suited to courts and politics — and Marco has always appreciated honesty from him, in all their dealings. So he adds, "But this _is_ my home, and if someone were keeping me from it, I would kill to return."

The way Marco breathes out, still looking at the tablet, makes it plain enough he understands the implication. Jingim may choose to protect their father's pet, but if rumors spread that Marco may have been responsible…? Not all in the court are fond of Marco's existence among them, and they all know that he was sold for the Khan's favor, entirely against his will. That could be enough.

Marco should leave. He should escape, back to his home and his people. Away from those that wish him harm, and those who would use him as a convenient place to lay blame.

"Byamba," Marco says, lying the tablet against his chest, "may I ask a favor?"

"I believe I just offered to lie to the Khan for you," he teases, "what more could you want?"

Marco gives a soft laugh, an even softer smile aimed towards the sky, before the smile sticks in place and his eyes darken. "Please, do not speak of me returning home."

He frowns. "Why? It is not an impossible journey, even alone. You—”

"I have no place there," Marco says, soft but firm. "I cannot go home, Byamba. I never could."

There is pain there, in the forced smile. He is not unfamiliar with the shapes Marco's distress takes — he privately thinks his father pressed too harshly sometimes, in the early days — but this is a quieter, deeper pain than those Byamba is more acquainted with. It seems almost similar to the grief for a loved one; ever a scar, and prone to ache, but long since accepted.

It may not be his place to press, but he has yet to promise anything, and that grief calls to him to mend, however he can.

"Would you tell me why?" he asks, and tells himself he will be satisfied with the answer, whatever it is. He must be.

Marco doesn't look to him. His gaze seems fixed on the stars, staring with direction, instead of idle. Long moments pass, and Byamba reins in that instinctive urge to gather the wounded omega in his arms, hold him close and do whatever he must to ease the pain. One of his own kind might accept such a gesture, but Marco… Marco's trust is a hard-won and fragile thing, and he has no wish to damage it by overriding his friend's wishes in any matter. Least of all by touching where it is not desired.

"Too many reasons to count," Marco murmurs, and then all at once rolls over, hiding the golden tablet back within its case and drawing his legs beneath him, the stiffness of the smile sharpening to something bitter. "I was never supposed to be here; did I ever tell you that?"

It was clear to guess, as he learned of Marco's home, but no, he does not recall ever being told. He never needed to be.

"You have not," Byamba chooses to say, and leaves the rest behind his teeth. Marco will explain in his own time.

"My father—” Marco breathes out, dropping the tablet back to the ground and looking away, back up to the dark and the stars. "All my life, I dreamed of standing at his side. Traveling the world, learning all he would teach me and more, to join him at his side as a son. An heir. I wanted to be—” He scoffs, laughs soft and brief. "An _adventurer._ "

Marco shakes his head. "When he returned, it was only to tell me that he was leaving again. He could not spend more than a week with his only child, and I— I could not _stand_ the idea of being left behind again. Of waiting another decade and a half to even see my father's face, if he ever returned at all. I saw what had happened to my aunt, left alone for those same years. I could not bear the thought of living my life at the word of someone else, waiting for a father who may never return, eventually to be… given to some alpha that would expect me to fill the same role. I wanted my _own_ life. My own stories."

"You have that now," Byamba points out. "You traveled the Silk Road. You've tracked down assassins. You have advised the Khan of Khans."

"Yes." Marco's gaze lowers to the fire. "But not without a cost, Byamba. Even if I were to return to Venice, I would not have any sort of a life there. What I have become to survive here is everything my culture does not wish me to be, and were I to return I would be nothing more than…” He smiles, but there is no warmth to it now. "Used goods. As valued as the moth, after the cocoon has been left behind. I would simply be part of the cost of gaining ownership of the Polo trade."

The more he learns of Marco's world, the less he likes of it. To punish an omega for enjoying themselves? For being outspoken, clever, and willing to fight to defend themselves? To treat them as lesser, as property, and to sell them with as much fanfare as a slave, with their price the only true question.

He watches Marco stare into the fire, the light reflecting in his eyes, casting his face in flickering shadow and flame. He is beautiful. Unique, among them all.

"It is not my place," he says slowly, "to offer you the proof of your value. However, without you my father would be dead, and we would yet be without answers. I do not believe your worth lies in what your father has built."

He cannot hear the stutter of Marco's breath, but he can see it. There is a bob of his throat, a shine to his eyes the firelight is not the cause of.

"Thank you," he finally says. Quiet and raw, further words for once seeming to fail him. Or perhaps he recognizes the value of words as well as he does the value of goods, and chooses to use them sparingly this once.

"May I ask a question of you?" he asks, as the fire burns.

Marco's gaze returns to him. "Of course."

_'My Great Khan_ , _'_ he had said, vicious and more threatening than Byamba had ever seen him before. Face to face with an assassin, and there that instinct for vengeance rose. As fresh as it was when Marco demanded to join their hunt, still streaked with the blood of his father's attackers.

To hold onto that urge so long goes beyond simple instinct.

"The Old Man. He offered you a place in their world, yet you did not take it. You would have been accepted there, in ways your home would not have allowed." Here, with nothing but the stars and the sky to bear witness to what truths may be spoken, he asks, "Is it only the health of your father, that keeps you tied to Cambulac?"

Marco looks at him. Stays silent, for enough moments that a man less patient might brush the question aside to move on to other matters.

But, finally, the answer comes.

"It is not."

Even expected, the answer is welcome. And yet worrying.

He wonders if his father knows how valuable of a creation Marco has become. He wonders whether it was done on purpose.

"I will not speak of Venice again," he promises. "But know that you are always welcome to tell me of it, should you care to." He sighs and allows his arm to slide out from under him, his back to hit the ground as he stretches. "Jingim is more likely to spite my suggestions rather than listen to them, but should things take a turn for the worse when we arrive, I will do what I can for you."

Marco's smile is a quick, fleeting thing. "Thank you, my friend."

“Save your thanks for afterwards, if you still feel inclined to give them.”

He hopes his father yet lives. Marco does not deserve to have his loyalty repaid with suffering.

* * *

"Hold, Latin."

Marco turns, pausing in step with his son before, with a faint inclination of his head, Byamba steps out of the room and walks away. His Latin comes back to him, standing tall and still in the dusty clothes of his travel, eyes holding his without the faint sliver of trepidation that was there when they first reported to him.

Good. His Latin is gaining courage, it seems. Perhaps a certain level of freedom suits him, or perhaps it has been the time spent with his son, and away from those that require a more cautious guard. He is aware of the growing friendship there, between Byamba and his Latin. He is curious to see if it will turn to more given time to flourish, especially now he is sure he will have the chance to see the result.

Which brings him to the first business. "You defended me courageously," he praises, "even in the face of death."

Marco's gaze dips for just a moment. "I was one of many," is the predictable deflection. "And it pleases me greatly to return and find you well."

He would take the words for political flattery, but for the genuine relief in his Latin's eyes. Relief and warmth, from the moment that he entered the room, and his scent makes no secret of it, either. Marco does have a silver tongue when he chooses to use it, but he is true where it matters.

"Mm." Kublai studies him. "My Empress was quite pleased with your fury. She said you spoke against Jingim, that you demanded to accompany Byamba in the pursuit of those that attacked me."

The flush is easy to read, on the pale skin of Marco's cheeks. "Yes, I uh... I am afraid I was not in my right mind, Sire. I will apologize to Prince Jingim when I next see him; I should not have spoken to him as I did."

He waves his hand, dismissing the notion with a sharp sound. "You misunderstand," he corrects. "You owe Jingim no apology, unless you choose to give one. The only reason my Chabi allowed you to go in her place is because she is not as young as she once was." He snorts, considering that. "No alpha wishing to keep his balls would deny an omega's right to seek vengeance. My men know better. It pleases me to see that my sons know better, as well. They learned well from their mothers."

"Ah." Marco does not seem to fully understand, if how he pauses is any clue. "That is… not the way, with my people."

"Hm." Chabi will doubtless have words with the boy later, particularly if Kublai chooses to mention his misunderstandings of their culture, but there is one thing he would draw attention to here and now. "To seek vengeance on a partner's behalf shows great loyalty," he comments. "Did you know that, Latin?”

The answer is clear enough, even before the halting, "I… did not, Sire."

"I suspected as much. Your land does not seem the type to bow to an omega's right to follow instinct, and there is no higher instinct than the ferocity gifted upon omegas to hunt and strike down those that would harm what is theirs." He lets his lips twitch in a smile then, teases, "Is that how you think of me, Latin? As yours?" because he can.

The embarrassed flush to his Latin's cheeks is only half as enjoyable as the one that takes him in pleasure.

"I would never presume to call you such, my Khan," he manages to say, though the burn of his skin is clear.

"Which is not an answer to my question," he points out, far more amused than truly in seek of an answer. It is enough to know that Marco did feel such base instincts as those, he does not need to hear it said aloud.

"I—”

He should have mercy. "Relax, Latin. We both know my Chabi would flay your skin from your bones if you tried to claim such. I like your skin where it is, and I suspect you do as well."

The flush is fading, slowly. "That I do, my Khan."

There are more important matters to attend to, and one that can wait no longer for an answer.

"Have you made your decision, regarding the fates of your father and uncle?"

The return to important matters seems to shock him. His Latin swallows, but recovers quite quickly. "No, Lord Kublai."

An interesting change of address, in such a moment.

"I thought—" Marco catches himself, and corrects, "I _hoped_ , you might pardon them." It's obvious even as he says it that Marco does not expect him to agree.

He does not pretend to consider it, either. Nothing is served by such a ruse. "Is pardon punishment?"

His Latin takes a breath. Slow and steady, and his voice lowers to a more truthful note. "I wished… you would spare them."

The simple plea of a son, desperate to save a father that he knows he has no chance of saving.

"Why would I do that?" he asks.

Marco's gaze lowers, head dipping. Perhaps it is instinct that makes him tilt his head slightly, baring the side of his throat in implicit submission. "You would not, Sire." His eyes shut, voice halting as he speaks, despite the clear attempt to restrain reaction. "It was unreasonable to ask, but I could not bear the thought of not trying. My apologies, Khan."

Abandoned or not, the merchant is Marco's father, and that is not a bond that breaks easily, even when one side has dealt such a betrayal to the other. He knows that far better than he would wish to. It doesn't change what must be done, however.

"I understand," he grants, drawing Marco's gaze back to him. "But you know our laws, Latin. Not many are offered the chance to lessen a punishment."

A swallow, chin lifting high, back straightening. "I know."

"Have you reached your decision, Latin?" he asks again.

The Latin hesitates, but nods. "Yes," is his answer, even as his eyes glint with the threat of tears. "I would choose to brand them, my Khan. So all would know them as thieves."

It is mercy, indeed. A great mercy, for a crime whose usual punishment would be death. Perhaps a mercy that he would not have allowed, before the assassins attempted to take his life. His Latin showed great loyalty, and that loyalty should be rewarded. If the deed also happens to further damage the bond between father and son, that is only to Kublai's advantage. Yes; a further test of loyalty, and a lesson to Marco, as well. Mercy can be earned, but it comes at a price.

"Very well," he grants, and then decrees, "You will be the one to administer the punishment, Latin."

Marco stills, eyes widening beyond their normal. For a moment it seems he might protest, and then Kublai tilts his head, and the moment passes in silence. That often-speaking mouth closes, and Marco simply bows, a hand to his chest, eyes closing. Perhaps to hide the wetness of tears; perhaps simply to hide.

"Yes, my Khan."

No more is said, and he beckons his Latin forward, bidding him kneel and rest against his legs with the flick of his fingers. Reward will come later, when the deed is done, but for now… He guides Marco's head to rest on his lap, head turned away to allow him a semblance of privacy. Obedience deserves that.

It is not an easy thing he asks of the boy, but it must be done. Mercy must be paid for, and his Latin has chosen to pay the cost his father has brought upon his head. It can only be the true loyalty of a son, for although Kublai knows well the depths of his Latin's capacity for loyalty, it would not extend to someone that had cost him all he now seems to hold dear. It is better this way, and he will enjoy proving to Marco's father that the son he so mistreated no longer belongs to him.

He strokes his fingers through Marco's hair, and along his shoulders, when they tremble.

Soon, but not yet. He will allow his Latin time to gather himself. Loyalty deserves that, too.

* * *

It is not what he expected.

Marco… He expected his son's anger, yes, and the hurt he must have felt at being left behind, but he did not expect what has come to pass.

Perhaps he should have. From the very start, Marco was adaptive. He learned quickly — tasks, languages, and anything else he put his mind to — and he survived the travel across the desert and the many lands they passed through before and after. It was his tongue that bought them favor at court, and the gift of him that won them the right to continue to trade along the Silk Road.

Is it any wonder, then, that his son has adjusted so well among the savages? He has survived among them, turned his wit to his benefit. Among other things, Niccolo assumes. He has heard rumors. Rumors that he does not know the truth of, except that he has also heard of the Khan's appetites. He bet on them, in fact, when he left Marco here.

So perhaps he should have considered that Marco might, in his anger and his naivete, be manipulated.

Matteo warned him enough times that Marco was not to be trusted. Not with their business, not with their mission, not with any of the truth. At first, he argued that Marco simply did not have the strength or the character to hide it, if questioned. Later, that the Mongols would have corrupted him, and he could not be trusted to hold to their faith when surrounded by so many heathens.

It was caution that made him choose to stay silent.

Now, with the brand on his palm aching with every breath, bound roughly in linen, he thinks it is best they did. His son is lost. Bewitched, or corrupted. However it was done, Marco is the Khan's, and it will be some time before they will be able to return and save what remains of his soul.

"Father."

Niccolo does not look up from his checking of the ties on the cart, his work unfortunately crippled, as even a touch of pressure to his palm is enough to bring cold sweat to his brow. Marco slows to a stop not far away, dressed in the robes of their kind and clean as these savages know how to be. Distant enough, however, to be wary. Even his tone is guarded.

Matteo, on the other side of the cart, scowls with visible distrust. He hasn't yet come to terms with the fact that were it not for his son, they would be corpses in the ground by now. It is not so black and white as his brother would like to believe.

"An auspicious day for departure," he comments, tugging the rope tight. " _Tsagaan Sar_." The White Moon festival, as he understands it. A great celebration; one neither of them will be allowed to be part of.

Marco glances to Matteo, shifts and swallows, but doesn't speak. He doesn't retreat, though, as Niccolo approaches. There is still enough loyalty in his son to keep him from fleeing, and enough to bring him out here to begin with.

"What you did saved our lives. I know this." He looks to the side, where Matteo has distanced himself to speak with one of the merchants, bartering for supplies. "Your uncle knows, too, but will not confess it."

There is a part of him that wishes to simply take his son and leave. Marco survived the road before, and surely he could survive it again, especially with the knowledge and skills he has apparently picked up while trapped here. But the rational is quick to reassert itself. Marco does not have the stomach to do what they must, for the glory of God, and even if he did, he is an omega. It is not his place, anymore than it is his place to be on the road to begin with.

There is no true option but to leave him here, once again, and continue on their path. Anything else would jeopardize their mission, or Marco's life, or both.

"I fear…” he begins instead, seeking to convey some of that without saying it, "I will require another New Year to repay the debt I owe."

"The Khan will never allow you back into the Imperial City," Marco is quick to answer, with the faintest shake of his head. There is an edge to his voice that was never there before, and a hardness to his gaze that matches.

The thought of what he will do to these savages for their corruption of his son brings a smile to his face. He feels like laughing, but contents himself with merely offering, "We will meet again."

Marco doesn't seem to agree, but he doesn't argue. It's only when he's stepped back that, voice roughening, his son calls, "Father, wait."

He stops as requested, and merely watches as Marco lifts a hand to his robe, stepping close and pulling out something that flashes with gold where it strings between his fingers. Marco offers it to him, and when it drops into his palm it's heavily weighted, enough that his mind immediately begins to calculate the value. Fine golden chain, linked together in a short circle that would cling close to its wearer. The thicker pieces, with their inlaid gems in shades of green, are gathered near the front, with a small dip that would press right into the hollow of a throat.

It would be stunning, were it not for the neck he imagines it around.

The Khan is prone to giving ornamentation to those omegas in his favor. Particularly when they share his bed.

He knows the answer already, and yet he asks, "Where did you get this, Marco?"

His son meets his gaze squarely, and there is little waver to his voice when he replies, "For my service, Father." There is a pause as his gaze flicks to the side, to where Matteo still stands far enough away for their exchange to be a private one. "Father," Marco says, voice lower. Quiet. "Did you know?"

"Marco—”

"Father, please. Did you know?"

He pockets the precious metal, sliding it in close by his heart, where it will be safe. His son waits, tall, obedient even for all his defiance. The same son that pried his fingers apart and pressed heated metal to his palm. The same son that stood above him, chin raised and hands clenched, and yet obeyed the summons of a mere tilt of the Khan's head as though he had been called to heel.

He sold his son to this life. _He_ is responsible for whatever Marco has been through. The least he can do is be honest about that.

"Yes," he answers, meeting Marco's gaze with the same steadiness. "I knew of the Khan's habits concerning… those like you."

There is a moment of long silence, where his son's hands curl. Then, voice flat, expression offering nothing but a mask, Marco says, "The price of the necklace should sustain you for a time. Safe travels, Father. I wish you luck."

There is no defense to offer. Marco has no grievance with him that isn't fair, and there is nothing he can do to fix that at this time. When he returns, with God's army and the Pope's decree at his back, then he will seek forgiveness for his part in this. Until then, he must simply trust that Marco will continue to be clever enough to survive, and that his son's soul will still be possible to save on his return.

"Thank you, son. I will be sure to get what it is worth." More difficult, with the new brands, but not impossible. He will manage, and Marco will forgive, eventually.

He turns away, and his hand goes to the empty spot below his shirt where his cross used to lie, before he gave it to Marco.

_All Kings shall fall before Him_.

Loyalty to God, above all else. Until the end.

**Author's Note:**

> This was actually just built out of some miscellaneous drabbles I threw together as I was watching it for... I've lost count, actually. Third time? Fourth time? I realized three of these little scribbles all fit into the narrative of one episode, so I pushed it together. Hope you liked it as much as I did!
> 
> [You can find my Tumblr here!](http://skalidra.tumblr.com/)


End file.
